She is always Oletta, ejected misconception of a white trash traveling man, trading bibles and b*stards at another highway diner some thirty-odd ago and now she works the same table where mama bought a good book and a good time; serving eggs, pouring joe for the good ol' boys who snigger behind stained cups, they snicker hey bright n*gger; high-yeller piece with a white gal's face. Their eyes finger her wet-suede skin, curl themselves in umber coils springing from her head; her shoulders itch as they watch the rounds but she is still Oletta, goes home nights, room 12 at Queen's motel; she signs the slips in pencil, pays rent by the week because things change, don't they; maybe she'll pack it up, move to London or Paris where skin like wet suede buys you benedict and latte served on silver trays, houseboys in black-tie draw baths laced with Vouvray and now the tub is full; good ol' thoughts float, shed layers below her breasts. She thinks of traveling men, sees faces without features beneath her lids and wonders where the names went; what happened to the traces left behind? She listens to a TV preacher saving souls through the walls, glory halleleujah, the refills aren't really free. Time leaves footprints in rings, dead trails growing cold with the water and she remembers she is always Oletta.